


Pain that never hurts quite enough

by holograms



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Dark, Depressing, Drinking and Vomiting, Explicit Sex, Horror, Human Disaster Aaron Burr, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Psychological Horror, Suicide Attempt, angry horny ghost, awful people being awful, bad breakups, death ideation, mild violence, sex by proxy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 05:17:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8955268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: Ten years.  It's been ten years since Hamilton died, ten years of Hamilton being Burr's accompaniment through life — it's fine, until it isn't, and Burr can't be around him for one moment more.Hamilton doesn't take it well.(A missing scene to other ghost fic.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> A year ago, I wrote [we all defend the role we play](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465948) and since then, I wanted to do more of ghost!Alex haunting Burr. So here it is: the most dark and horrifying thing I've ever written _i'm serious!! read the tags!! it is DARK!!_
> 
> I wrote this over one night when I had slept about 8 hours total in a week and a half.
> 
> Title (and some lines within the fic) are inspired by _No Exit_. The full quote of the title is: "Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough."

_I'll never leave you,_ Hamilton had said, and Burr thought, _thank god I killed you._ It felt like a blessing, to have Hamilton promised to him, forever. Burr never could have Hamilton while he walked the earth, alive — he was rising further, always just out of Burr's reach — but then Burr ended that and killed Hamilton and then Hamilton came back and then Hamilton stayed and he became Burr's, forever.

_I'll never leave you_ , Hamilton says, and it feels like a curse.

 

Alexander is more irritating as a ghost. Burr has never been too concerned about the particulars of the afterlife (a childhood inundated with religion will do that), but now he's quite concerned, because Hamilton is a ghost. He's a ghost, because he's dead. He bled out from wounded pride on both their parts — the gunshot wound and massive bleeding had something to do with it too, probably — and now he's the slightly shimmery form that only Burr can see and hear, and Hamilton uses that opportunity to the fullest. Although Hamilton looks real, his non-corporeal body doesn't need nourishment or rest or warmth. He thrives off of Burr's attention, and he has heaven and hell behind him on his vendetta to make Burr miserable. An angel or demon, Burr does not know. Perhaps Hamilton was that all along. An ethereal being. It would make sense — he's too incredible to have been a mere human.

Ten years. It's been ten years since Hamilton died, ten years of Hamilton being Burr's personal accompaniment through life. Whether he wants him or not — Burr tells Hamilton to _fuck off_ but Hamilton says _I'm stuck with you_ , sighing, because they've discussed this ad nauseam. He's tied to Burr. Can't move on. Hamilton haunts him. Because he's a ghost. Burr thinks of telling someone, but the only person who would believe him is dead (like her mother, like Hamilton, like everyone, why does everyone die (except him)?).

So, Hamilton is his secret.

 

During the first few years, Hamilton would come and go, sometimes not showing up for days at a time (and Burr hates to admit that those were the coldest, loneliest nights). Burr doesn't know if Hamilton's appearances and disappearances are at will, or if something greater controls him — but it seems as though the longer Hamilton is of that _other_ side, the more he can linger on Burr's side.

Now, Hamilton rarely leaves, is always always always there, and when he isn't there, he is invisible, luring Burr into a false sense of security, and Burr must live his life as though Hamilton is there. Watching.

(However, Hamilton eventually tires of his invisibility trick when it isn't fun anymore, because Burr stopped caring what Hamilton witnesses. Secrecy is meaningless when Hamilton can suss out everything about Burr, and embarrassment is nothing these days, and besides, who would Hamilton tell? So Hamilton stays visible, to Burr only — and cats, which seem to take notice of Hamilton.

Burr gets two cats.)

Hamilton forces himself into Burr's life. He insists to assist Burr on his cases. He had followed Burr on his exile to Europe, and back to America on his return to shame. He leans against the wall and rants about trade embargoes while Burr makes water in an alley behind a pub. He makes Burr read to him. He crashes Burr's private dinners and _private_ time. He tells Burr he's getting fat, but then scolds him for not taking care of himself. He watches Burr sleep. He is the last thing Burr sees at night, and the first thing Burr sees when he wakes up.

This is what Burr gets for wishing that he could have more of Hamilton. This is what Burr gets for reacting just a moment too fast on the trigger. One goddamn choice that ruined his entire life.

"Go bother Madison," Burr says. "He has a war going on." He looks over to where Hamilton sits on a windowsill, soaking in the sunshine. His gold-tan skin glimmers. If Burr didn't know better, he would think Hamilton is alive.

Burr says, "An army led by a specter General." Pauses. Alexander Hamilton, risen from the dead to defeat the British. Again. "There's your war."

Hamilton swings his legs, looks over his shoulder at Burr.

"I _can't_ , you know that." Hamilton frowns at him, his eyebrows angry slants. He's still mad about the whole _dying_ thing.

Hamilton says, "Because you would have to go with me, and you're too old to fight in a war." His mouth tugs into a grin, and he's obviously pleased with himself. "And nobody wants you around, anyway. You're useless."

Burr shrugs. He can't argue with Hamilton. "It was worth a shot."

 

And then there's their _arrangement_.

Hamilton suggests that they have some _fun_ and then Burr goes with Hamilton to the park in the middle of the night and they pick out a lithe man with long, dark hair and Burr gives him money and then takes him back to his place and Hamilton watches while Burr fucks the guy senseless. Hamilton tells Burr what to do, how to fuck, and then Burr comes in the man-who-isn't-Hamilton's ass or face or throat and unemotionally tells the man to clean up and get out, and then Burr leaves the room with Hamilton following. It ruins the illusion, otherwise. That it's Hamilton who he's with, and puts his cock in.

Because he can't touch Hamilton and Hamilton can't touch him, he has to settle for a poor substitute — but it's worth it to come dump into some prostitute for what comes after, when Hamilton sits next to Burr in bed and gets close enough to make it feel like they're almost touching, to have that magnetic energy that Hamilton puts off and Burr craves, and Hamilton tells Burr how _good_ he makes him feel and that he loves him, of all things.

(The latter would be more believable if Hamilton did not look so malicious when he said it. More than he ever did when he was alive.)

And it happens again, and again.

Burr fucks the anonymous men like he would fuck Hamilton. Strips him naked, bends him over a table (couch, bed, anything) and rails him hard with not enough slick to make it easy and not enough stretch to make it not hurt. But that's how Hamilton wants it. Nasty fucker. Burr would say that Hamilton would be damned, but he's already dead. However, Burr would gladly damn his soul if he could know what it felt like to have Hamilton's sweet, hot ass around his cock. Or his eager, sinful mouth on him and choking on his cock. Just once. He would die happy.

But this guy (Burr never knows their name, they're all _Alexander_ to him), his eye color is all wrong — but that doesn't matter because Burr's got him face down into the pillow, spread on the bed, ass tilted up for Burr to take. Hamilton sits next to them, back against the headboard, waiting. He's never good at waiting during this. He's got a frenzied look about him. Desperate. Burr calls it Hamilton's ghost boner (as it seems he can't have a real one).

Burr strokes his own cock, in long firm tugs from base to tip. He smirks at Hamilton, prolonging it. Hamilton can't touch him either. Ha-ha. He knows how badly Hamilton wants to; he's told Burr confessions _I hate you, you kept that perfect cock from me. I wanted you so much, didn't you realize? I all but stripped naked and laid out on your desk holding myself open for you to fuck. You're so fucking dense, I swear—_

Hamilton focuses on Burr's cock. Licks his lips.

"C'mon, stick it in," Hamilton says, his voice husky. "You don't have the money to pay him to wait until you can get it up again."

Burr shoots him a glare but he does as Hamilton says, because he's ridiculously hard and well, Hamilton is correct.

He holds the man's hips still, pinning him down with one hand and takes his cock with the other. He rubs the cockhead against the rim, smearing precome around his hole, nudging inside just enough to make the man shudder and Hamilton moan. The man's ass clenches around nothing, and Burr aches to fill him up. He keeps the head inside and reaches down to grab the guy's balls, resulting in him taking in a sharp breath. Burr chuckles. He imagines Hamilton was loud during sex. He could never shut up normally, so it's only logical he would have yelled in ecstasy as Burr fucked him hard. Burr would've probably had to gag him and — oh, that's a lovely thought.

Hamilton crawls closer so he can see better, leans in so his face is right up where Burr's cock teases the proxy who's in place of Hamilton.

"Please, Sir, fuck me," Hamilton says, and then the man echoes it _Please, Sir, fuck me._ Does Hamilton compel it from him? No matter.

The man's whines are drowned out by Hamilton's whorish moans when Burr breaches him. Hamilton is absolutely erotic — tugs at his own hair, bites his lip until it should bleed but it doesn't, grinds down on the bed like he's sitting on a dick. Burr can't stop watching Hamilton, he continues to watch as he grips the man's waist and slips in a fraction further, grunts when he feels the tight heat inside yield to him. It's good, great, but he knows Hamilton would have been better. Goddamn his luck.

Hamilton knows he's being observed. He puts on a show — smiles coyly, turns around and pushes his ass out towards Burr and — that's really unfair. Hamilton's round, marvelous ass straining his breeches, the same ones he died in. (Minus the dirt from writhing on the ground and blood from his wound.)

"Let me see you," Burr pants. Pulls out, thrusts back in hard. Someone groans. "Show me."

("What?" the man asks, but Burr holds his neck down and pounds him harder.)

Hamilton looks over his shoulder, dark hair falling into his face (it's darker now than before, Burr thinks, black as night black as nothingness). He gyrates his hips, taunting Burr, and it's a goddamn shame — why did Burr shoot him when he could have fucked him instead? Burr imagines Hamilton on his hands and knees and Burr fingering Hamilton open until Hamilton begs for it, until he cries, and Burr would take Hamilton's ass in his hands and spread him open to see his taut hole, would ask, _does_ ask—

"You haven't had a dick in you in decades, huh?" Burr grunts, thrusts balls deep and really lets him feel it. "Or are you a slut who sat on any dick that you could get on?"

("Yes, Sir," the guy says, muffled, forgotten.)

Hamilton runs a hand up his body, sensual, says, "Wouldn't you like to know?" Blows Burr a kiss.

Burr has to pay the man extra to not ask questions about why he calls him _Alexander_ when he comes.

 

He loves Alexander. He hates Alexander. He hates that he loves him.

 

"Turn the page, Burr. I've been reading the same thing for an hour."

It's their quiet time between first and second sleep. Hamilton sits crossed-legged in bed next to Burr, reading from the book that's open in Burr's lap. Burr rests, staring at the ceiling, Hamilton's whinging a background noise. His attention is drawn to his side, looking on as Hamilton tries in vain to turn the page by blowing at it.

It doesn't even flutter. Years of practicing, and Hamilton's best haunting skills are the invisibility thing and making candles flicker.

Hamilton sighs. Lies down next to Burr, props himself up on his elbow. Smiles. He has a boyish beauty to him from his youth, but the wisdom of his later years. It should be a sin to look so handsome.

Hamilton says, "So what shall we do with our time if you won't let me read? You're looking rather sexy," even though Burr is in a ratty sleep shirt and he's nowhere as attractive as he used to be; he's older and had a hard life, and it shows. Lines around his eyes. He's given up keeping his hair shaved and lets it grow in a salt and pepper fuzz. His joints are stiff in the morning and when the weather gets cool. He changes, and Hamilton stays exactly the same, and Hamilton looks at Burr as if Burr is exactly the same.

And that's when Burr realizes he cannot have Hamilton for one more moment.

"I can't do this anymore," Burr whispers. He blinks. His eyes are wet.

"Can't do what?" Hamilton asks. "You want to go back to sleep already? Okay. I'll do the same thing I always do—"

"No." Burr motions between them. "I mean this. Us."

The room suddenly feels ten degrees colder. A chill down to his bones. Cuts sharp. Freezes the marrow.

Hamilton sits up. "Why now?" he spits, furious — he isn't used to being rejected. He runs a hand through his hair, laughs, like he doesn't understand. "What led you to this enlightenment?"

Burr presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until color and light blooms.

"This isn't commonplace, Alexander," Burr says. He can't look at Hamilton. Maybe he can blind himself so he won't ever have to look at him again. "You're dead. You're a fucking ghost."

Dead dead dead. Shot in the chest, bled out, dead—

He chances a look at Hamilton. Still there. Still dead.

"Exactly," Hamilton says, slowly. "I'm dead. Because you killed me."

Burr laughs. Yes — Hamilton guilt tripped Burr and Burr was susceptible. He regrets killing Hamilton. Yes! He admits it. He often thinks of Hamilton's poor wife and children. He thinks of what Hamilton could have done. He thinks of what could have been different between them. He thinks how he probably should have shot himself instead. He fucked up.

But he's circled back around, reevaluated. Came to the conclusion that Hamilton is the source of misery in his life.

It was good while it lasted.

"I'm sorry, Hamilton—"

"You aren't sorry!" Hamilton shouts, and Burr blinks and Hamilton is across the room, pacing. Like a caged animal, ready to strike. He turns to Burr, and if he could cry, he would be. He might be. He says, "And don't call me _Hamilton_ , you only do that when you want to distance yourself from me!"

He's hurt — a red mark forming on his shirt. Blood drips down, spilling onto the floor.

"Please go." Burr speaks softly. Afraid to make it worse. It's hard enough as it is, having to accept that he'll lose Hamilton ( _Alexander_ ) twice. "You asked me once if I wanted you to go. I do now. I just." He shakes his head. "I can't handle it anymore."

Hamilton lets out a pathetic sound, and then makes the candlelight flicker, then it surges — the flame growing until Burr fears the wall will catch fire — and the book that Hamilton had been trying to read flies across the room.

"You'll regret this," Hamilton screams. The windows rattle. Burr feels the heat of the fire on his skin — he looks down because he swears _he's_ on fire, but he's not, he's fine, and he looks back up and—

—Hamilton is gone.

Burr says to the empty room, "I already do regret it."

 

Hamilton doesn't leave.

Comes back with a vengeance.

Brutal. Burr is reminded of a bloodthirsty immigrant soldier with a death wish.

Hamilton takes his ghostly, non-solider hands and reaches into Burr's insides. Burr watches as Hamilton's hands pass through his body and ah — Hamilton _can_ grab ahold of something, he takes Burr's heart and squeezes. Controls his heartbeat. His life in Hamilton's hands. One two. One two. One two. They're face to face, and Hamilton looks more formed than ever, a strange beauty. Snarls. One two. _You're mine,_ Hamilton tells him. _I'll never leave you._ Hamilton's eyes are black. Black as his hair. He squeezes Burr's heart, doesn't let go. One———————— Burr feels his veins screaming. Body begging for oxygen. This must be what it feels like to die. Hamilton grins. Leans in close. He says, _this is what it feels like._ Burr's vision fades. He is dying. Hamilton is going to kill him after all. He feels closer to Hamilton, he'll join him soon. He must nearly gone, because he's hallucinating, he feels Hamilton's cool mouth touch his. A kiss. Of death...

...but Hamilton lets go, and Burr's heart beats again. Hamilton gives him that. Onetwoonetwoonetwoonetwoonetwo quick, trying to make up. Burr hears himself gasping for air but he doesn't really feel it. It's something his body does automatically, he doesn't tell himself to live.

Hamilton stands above him. When did he get on the floor? He clutches his chest. He hurts so bad. So bad. Hamilton kneels next to him. Asks, "Do you change your mind?"

Hamilton is beautiful like this: angry, hurt, just.

"I wish I could kill you again," Burr says. Wheezes. He means it. He would reach into Hamilton's chest and pull out his heart, if Hamilton could still bleed.

Hamilton laughs. He says, "Me too. It brought us so much closer the first time you killed me."

He jabs his hand in, twists Burr's insides. Holds Burr's vocal cords with the other hand so Burr cannot scream.

 

Hamilton's supernatural abilities intensify, apparently, when he is heartbroken. Burr retracts that — Hamilton isn't heartbroken. Just damaged. Upset. Burr is the only person he has in the world, and Burr doesn't want him anymore. But Hamilton had his life, and Burr needs to have the little he has left of his.

Hamilton sees to it that he doesn't. He does make Burr regret it — breaking up with him. He chases Burr's cats away. He talks _awful_ to Burr, says things the previous Alexander Hamilton would have never said ( _you're worthless, vile, if I weren't dead already I'd kill myself so wouldn't have to be around you, you've brought nothing but misery to everyone in your life, they probably all died so they wouldn't have to be around you_ ) and Burr forces himself to remain stoic, because he will not let Hamilton make him cry. Hamilton follows Burr in the streets, curses him, shouting things only Burr can hear. _You can't get rid of me! I'm supposed to be with you!_ When Burr ignores him and hurries his pace, Hamilton explodes a street lantern, catching a nearby tree on fire and sending glass shards flying.

One piece of glass cuts Burr's cheek. Blood trails down, staining his collar.

"Too bad it didn't get in your eye," Hamilton comments.

Burr replies, unthinking, "Too bad it didn't slit my throat."

Hamilton raises his brows.

 

Hamilton is there in his sleep, too.

Every time he succumbs to slumber, Hamilton is there, making his dreams a constant nightmare that he cannot escape. Burr is aware he's dreaming but Hamilton won't let him escape and does what amounts to torture. Burr knows it's Hamilton's doing. Hamilton makes Burr see his own heart and what's there is so rotten and evil, that he can't interpret what he glimpses. Hamilton takes it, makes it something even more terrible. He creates such awful visions, horrors that he must have seen in another realm, because the projected images are terrors that Burr could never think up himself — so visceral, horrifying, that Burr tenses his muscles so lock-boned tense that he aches all over, piss himself in fear, claws at his skin, and Burr wakes up sobbing and screaming, asking Hamilton _why why why—_

Burr has to fire the maid because she thought Burr is going insane.

_The joke is, I am_ , Burr thinks.

 

(glimpses of his parents long dead, he's given a falsehood of how his life could have been if had been loved by them but they die, again; Hamilton digs into the deepest recesses of Burr's mind and retrieves memories long repressed of the real horrors of Burr's childhood, beaten bloody; he's back at Monmouth and it's so hot his skin drips off his skeleton; Burr sees himself across a New Jersey shore with a gun aimed at him; feels the bullet rip him open but what hurts is the sad confused _why did you do this, Aaron?_ and it's Hamilton's pain, it's his pain as he's bleeding, choking on blood and his family is there but it isn't Burr's family, but it feels like it when they cry for him; another dream, where Burr is the last person on earth, so so so miserable but he cannot die, but that's not that different than his reality; dismemberment, suffering, but no death; Hamilton's beautiful, delicate hands strangling him; Hamilton dying, over and over and even though Burr tries to save him, he dies anyway, whispering _it's too late_ ; beings with sharp teeth and claws and a shadow that consumes all the light and it threatens to consume him too and he knows they're waiting for him; things too horrible to name because if he did then he would lose his mind; and Burr has never been scared much of anything but he's terrified, at everything, because he never knows what will be waiting for him—)

 

Burr stops eating. He stops sleeping. He looks like he's dying. Nobody asks if he's okay. Nobody cares. He doesn't have anyone, now.

Except Hamilton.

Hamilton looks as good as ever. Better, even. He must be stealing bits of life from Burr.

"I'd say you would die if you didn't stop this," Hamilton says, nonchalant, as Burr lies on the couch, where he's been all day and the night before. "But this isn't how you die."

"Good," Burr says. "I have so much to look forward to."

Burr wishes Hamilton would just tell him when and how he dies. He isn't sure why it matters anyway. He doesn't care about his life, or death. He's just waiting for it.

Hamilton may not be able to kill him, but he can make Burr wish he were dead.

Hamilton sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. "This doesn't have to be so difficult."

Burr goes to say, _I'm not the one torturing someone,_ but then he remembers that he murdered Hamilton, so, that's fair.

 

Burr can't find his pistol when he goes to look for it.

 

Burr still doesn't sleep. He stays awake as long as he can, listening to Hamilton speak, because that's he only thing he has energy to do. He nods off every so often, but he jerks himself awake. He can't sleep. Because if he sleeps, Hamilton is there, a different Hamilton, one who is killing him, very very slowly, agonizingly slow— and Burr grieves for the compassionate, brilliant, clever Hamilton that once was.

Exhaustion sets in. Past exhaustion. Dusk has set in his mind — he knows there's things happening, but everything is too dim to make out. His reactions are a few seconds slower. He has to think about what words mean. Loses track of the number of days it's been. He fades out occasionally and he knows he doesn't sleep because Hamilton doesn't take over this mind (or maybe, Burr thinks, that Hamilton lets him get the minimum of rest so he can keep Burr alive, alive to mess with). He starts to have memory lapses. He just isn't really there. He exists only for Hamilton to do with as he wants.

There are times that Burr looks over at Hamilton, and he forgets that Hamilton is dead. Burr wonders if he'll die ( _die, and be with Hamilton_ ) if he stays awake long enough. He's willing to test it.

Unfortunately, Burr is alive. Weak. His body turns on him. Betrays him like everything and everyone. But he can't control life (or death or love), so it is what it is. He's either succumbing to sleep, or dying. Either one is welcome.

As his eyelids flutter shut, Hamilton comes into his vision. Burr smiles. The predator had been waiting for the moment. He pounces.

 

Burr is in water. The sea at night, he believes, but he knows he isn't really there. Another dream.

He wonders if this is the sea Hamilton grew up next to, an idea conjured up for Burr.

He's thinking of this still when he's dragged under. He fights, thrashing in the water as one does, but he knows that it is Hamilton's grip around his ankle, pulling him down. It's no use. Hamilton always wins.

It's just a nightmare. A dream. It's okay. He opens his mouth, inhales, lets water fill his lungs. It burns, it feels like he's going to burst, he's on fire from the inside out but he's drowning, and then his last thoughts turn to Theo — his baby, is this what she suffered when she died at sea? Has Hamilton found his greatest fear—?

Burr wakes up, and wishes he still weren't breathing — his daughter isn't breathing and he doesn't want to either, he begs Hamilton—

"Why don't you kill me? Drag me to hell?"

Hamilton quirks his brow, tilts his head. "Hell?" Questioning.

And Burr laughs. Yes. He's already in hell. That must be it. They both are. Maybe they're both dead, and this is their punishment. Burr's is eternal suffering and Hamilton's is that he can't have what he wants. Hell is each other.

"Go to sleep, Burr."

He does. It couldn't get worse.

 

Burr drinks. Empties his drinking cabinet, and then goes to buy as much alcohol that his money can buy. Drinks until he vomits, and then he drinks some more. Hamilton tells him to _stop_ , stomps his foot on the ground but it makes no sound, makes bottles fling against the wall and break, but Burr keeps on. Drinks until he falls out of his chair and then he drinks sitting on the floor. He vomits again and his throat is raw and he's crying and he doesn't even know why.

"You're killing yourself," Hamilton says, and he has the audacity to sound concerned.

"I know," Burr says, and then there's nothing.

At least when he blacks out, Hamilton is not there.

Hopefully, he's dead.

 

Not dead.

Hamilton is there when Burr wakes. Sitting on the edge of Burr's bed, looking out the window. Sunlight streams in on him. He looks halfway to an angel. Anyone would agree.

"Fuck." Burr winces. It feels like his brain is leaking out of his ears. His gut tumbles.

Hamilton turns to him, and there's worry in those sad soulful eyes that Burr was — is in love with. Deep brown, not black.

"You fool," Hamilton says, reprimanding, but soft. "You could have died."

Burr tries to speak, but chokes. Swallows, attempts again. "Don't you know how I die?"

Hamilton frowns. "Yes," he says. "But still. I didn't like seeing you like that."

Hamilton says, "You don't know what it's like." He blinks, and he's actually goddamn crying. A ghost has tears. Heartbroken. "You're all I have. I'm sorry—"

"It's fine."

It's fine. It has to be. What other choice does he have?

Burr shrugs and looks around. "How did I get to my room?" he asks, because the last thing he remembers is passing out in his living room in his own mess.

A smirk comes to Hamilton's expression. "Ghost secret." Probably levitation or some new shit Hamilton has acquired that Burr doesn't want to know about.

Hamilton gets closer to Burr, close enough to cool his fevered body. He asks, "Is this okay?"

Burr nods. He's so goddamned tired he doesn't care. And Hamilton, well—

—it's always the same, with him.

 

Hamilton influences Burr's dreams that night, but it's nice. A scene that never happened — the two of them, young like when they first met, and they're lying nude in the grass, kissing with their hands on each other, and Hamilton smiles at him and it's perfect—

 

Burr wakes up to Hamilton whining at him. Like old times. Hamilton begs and Burr is hard and damn Hamilton. Why is he so alluring? Why is he the one thing he can't let go?

Burr touches himself without Hamilton asking. When he grips himself Hamilton moans like he's the one that's been touched, and he lets out short whines as Burr fucks his fist. Burr makes it a treat, an _I-forgive-you present_ — Burr realizes that this is make-up sex. He does what he knows Hamilton enjoys; rolls back the foreskin, digs his thumb against the slit, sucks salty precome off his fingers. Plays with his balls as he jerks himself off fast and Hamilton moans and whines and flops back onto the bed and bucks his hips up. Burr gets off on Hamilton getting off over this — in whatever metaphysical way he can — and after that, Hamilton is like a sunbeam. Warm, and Burr can't help but feel okay.

For a moment.

 

Burr waits a few days. He's good at waiting.

Hamilton acts as though nothing has happened, that he didn't throw the biggest fit ever when Burr tried to end things between them. Burr goes along with it. It's part of the game.

Burr finds his pistol.

He could do it. The gun is loaded, and he knows how to fire it and he knows how to end a life.

He could have prevented it. Hamilton is Hamilton. Burr knew that. And it's not all Hamilton; Burr suffers, because he can't find any other way to cope.

He puts the pistol in his mouth, pulls the trigger and—

—nothing happens.

"This isn't how you die, either."

Burr opens his eyes, sees Hamilton at the end of the barrel of the gun.

He pulls it out of his mouth, cold metal and cleaning oil against his tongue. Spits it out.

"You stopped this?" Burr asks.

Hamilton nods.

Burr laughs. "Too bad you couldn't make my gun misfire before," he says, and he cries and yells and breaks things and Hamilton watches it all. Waits. He's gotten better at that, now that he's dead.

"What do you want from me?" Burr asks. Pleads. "Don't you want me to die?"

"It's not your time," Hamilton says, calmly. He waves his hand, rights a stack of books that Burr had knocked over.

"But don't you want me to suffer?" Burr asks, because _he_ want _s_ to suffer, so Hamilton surly must want him to, also.

Hamilton glides over, stays. He passes a cool hand over Burr's skin, cups his cheek.

"But you are suffering now," Hamilton sadly says, and yes, Burr is suffering — he's always hurt and Hamilton has been the only one to see it because he hurt too. Burr has hurt for so long, everything, his entire life...

"It'll be okay. One day you won't hurt," Hamilton promises, and Burr is hurting now, but he feels better with Hamilton. He's there, with him. A gift. He has more time.

"Now, my dear Aaron Burr, Sir—"

**Author's Note:**

> I told you so.  
> [@acanofpeaches](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com) at tumblr


End file.
